


The Reigate Winos

by BaronVonBork



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 14:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17726687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronVonBork/pseuds/BaronVonBork
Summary: Sherlock Holmes as a drunk.





	The Reigate Winos

My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes has imperiled his health in many of our adventures. Notable are those which I have titled “A Study In Claret”, “The Adventure of the Second Stein” and of course “The Adventure of The Six Napoleon Brandy Chasers”. However, I have never been more concerned than I was by the hangover caused by his immense excursions in the spring of '87. On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the 14th of April that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes was lying “ill” in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in his sick-room, and was upset to find that there was nothing left to drink in the mini-bar. His iron constitution had broken down under the strain of an ‘investigation’ which had extended over two months, during which period he had never been drunk less than fifteen hours a day, and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a stretch.  
My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had come under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near Reigate in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him upon a visit. It was, then, an ideal location for Holmes to rest and recuperate. When Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans and a week after our return from Lyons we were under the Colonel's roof.  
On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel's gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while I saw to his rehabilitation by keeping his tumbler well stocked with a brandy-based panacea. In order to instil confidence in my patient I was matching his medicinal consumption glass for glass.  
Meanwhile Colonel Hayter told us of a recent theft at a neighbour’s house.  
“Old Acton, who is one of our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday. No great damage done, but the fellows are still at large.”  
“Ugh?” asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.  
“The affair is a pretty one, one of our little country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr. Holmes.”  
Holmes either waved away the compliment or an imaginary fly. With his usual cat-like grace he then used the momentum of this action to arrange himself heavily on the floor beside the sofa. The Colonel continued.  
“The thieves ransacked the library and got very little for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down, drawers burst open, and presses ransacked, with the result that an odd volume of Pope's Homer, two plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, a small oak barometer, and a ball of twine are all that have vanished.”  
“How pecrulier… culi… culier!” I exclaimed, giggling.  
“Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could get.”  
Holmes grunted from the floor.  
“I could solve that.” said he; “No fuggin’ bovver—”  
But I held up a warning finger.  
“Yous are “ill”. An’ soam… soam… So. Am. I.”  
Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of glassy-eyed resignation towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into a mist of belches and giggles.  
It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be wasted, for next afternoon we were at breakfast when the Colonel's butler rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of him.  
“Have you heard the news, sir?” he gasped. “At the Cunningham's sir! Murder! It was William the coachman. Shot through the heart, sir, and never spoke again.”  
Holmes and I winced at the painfully loud voice of the butler.  
“Who shot him, then?” asked the Colonel.  
“A burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He'd just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met his end in saving his master's property.”  
“Evidently the same villains who broke into Acton's.” said the Colonel as the butler returned to his duties.  
“And stole that very singular collection,” croaked Holmes, groggily.  
“Precisely. I fancy it's some local practitioner,” said the Colonel. “In that case, of course, Acton's and Cunningham's are just the places he would go for, since they are far the largest about here.”  
“And richest?”  
“Well, they ought to be, but they've had a lawsuit for some years which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old Acton has some claim on half Cunningham's estate, and the lawyers have been at it with both hands.”  
“If it's a local villain there should not be much difficulty in running him down,” said Holmes with a yawn and a slight retch.  
I was concerned that Holmes was involving himself in the matter and I indicated so by quietly vomiting a little into my ‘kerchief.  
“All right, Watson, I don't intend to meddle.”  
“Inspector Forrester, sir,” said the butler, returning.  
The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the room and immediately recoiled at some malodour only he could detect. “Good-morning, Colonel,” said he; “I hope I don't intrude, but we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here.”  
The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector bowed.  
“We thought that perhaps you would care to step across to the Cunningham estate, Mr. Holmes. There has been a most terrible murder!”  
“The fates are against you, Watson,” said he, still retching.  
Both Holmes and I were in need of some sort of remedy before we could be of any use to the inspector, so while Forrester acquainted Holmes with the facts of the case I saw about fixing some medicinal strength hair-of-the-dog. Having thoroughly tested the libation before returning to my patient, I discovered Forrester had taken his leave. Holmes set about the medicine himself with gusto so as to hasten our departure for the Cunningham estate.  
When we arrived, Holmes set off with the inspector’s support, while I took a rest as near to the bench on the front lawn as I could manage. An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.  
“Mr. Holmes is crawling up and down in the field outside,” said he. “He wants us to go up to the house together.”  
“T’Mishter Cun…*hic*…ham's?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Wha’ for why now?”  
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I don't quite know, sir. Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite got over his ‘illness’ yet. He's been behaving very queerly, and he is very much excited.”  
“S’no bovver,” said I. “I… I… usely found tha-there’s method in his madnesh.”  
“Some folks might say there was madness in his method,” muttered the Inspector. “But he's… ”  
“AHAHAHAHAAAA!” I interrupted, “Madnesh in ‘is meffid! AHAHAAHA! S’smashing that!”  
After I had used Forrester’s trousers and then jacket to hoist myself to an angle approaching vertical, we found Holmes careening up and down in the field, his chin sunk upon his breast, and each hand clutching its own bottle of refreshment so tightly one could make out the bones of each joint of his fingers.  
“The matter grows in in in… in… terest,” said he. “Watson, it’s all proper fuggin’ mental.”  
“Any sussessss…succ… Any success?”  
“Well, we seen some very inter-eshing things. First, we seen the body of the coachman. At first I thought he was just a bit tipsy, so I sat with him for a chat an’ he wassss lovely he was.” Holme’s face scrunched up as he attempted to convey just how lovely the coachman was. “He was sooooo lovely. But when I offered him some Buckfast, I noticed what his head wuz all blown off by a gun an’ that.”  
At this, Holmes’s eyes sprang open with surprise and bewilderment.  
“Had you doubted it, then?”  
Holmes, swaying, eventually focused on whoever had said that and shrugged.  
Soon, I joined him in his swaying and, as it was such a pleasant afternoon, we remained swaying in silence together for five minutes or so.  
Eventually, with the Inspector between us to assist our ongoing battle with gravity, we staggered up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne house. The Inspector led us round to the side gate, where a constable was standing at the kitchen door.  
Leaning against the door to steady himself, Holmes discovered that it was open. As he rose to his feet, he took the opportunity to disgorge the contents of his stomach. His muttered oaths were unnecessary, however, as the kitchen floor had largely been saved from soiling by the clever use of the constable’s shoes.  
“Still at it, then?” said he to Holmes. “I thought you Londoners were never at fault. You don't seem to be so very quick, after all.”  
“Fug off, you fuggin’ country bumpkin’ bloody arse… bastad…” said Holmes good-humouredly.  
“Why, I don't see that you have any clue at all.” said young Alec Cunningham, appearing in the doorway with his father.  
The Inspector introduced us to the Cunninghams and went on to explain to them, “There may be one clue. We thought that if we could only find—Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?”  
My poor friend's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony, and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon the ground. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried him to a large chair. I took the head end, which was only dropped four or five times, and thus was unlikely to do any real harm. He breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with a shamefaced apology for his weakness, he rose once more and re-fell immediately to the floor. So appalled was I at this spectacle that I did not stop laughing for a good quarter of an hour.  
“Watson’ll tell you that I have only just recovered from a real proper illness,” he tittered. “I am liable to ‘suddenervous attacks’. S’true, innit Wasson? Tell ‘em. S’true y’know.”  
“Shall I send you home in my trap?” asked young Cunningham.  
“Naaaah. I’m here now innit. An’ there’s one point on whish I shud like to feel sure. We can very eas’ly ver’fy it.”  
“What is it?”  
“Well,” he whispered conspiratorially, “it seems to me that it is jusst poss’ble that the vital evidence might be in that most impressive looking tantalus over there...”  
An hour or two later I awoke from a long blink to find Holmes had disappeared. I asked Alec Cunningham if he knew where Holmes had gone.  
“Wait here an instant,” he said. “The fellow is off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he has got to!”  
They rushed out of the room, leaving me staring at the Inspector in a desperate attempt to focus.  
“'Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Master Alec,” said the Inspector. “It may be the effect of this ‘illness’, but it seems to me that—”  
His words were cut short by a sudden scream of “Help! Help! Murder!” With a thrill I recognised the voice as that of my friend. I rushed clumsily to the landing. The cries, which had sunk down into a hoarse, inarticulate screaming, came from the room which we had first visited. I wobbled in, and on into the dressing-room beyond. The two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock Holmes, the younger clutching his bottle of brandy with both hands, while the elder seemed to be stealing his hip-flask. In an instant we were upon them, but the swaying floor tipped us over time and again until we all lay in a heap, giggling like schoolgirls. Holmes staggered to his feet, very pale and evidently greatly exhausted.  
“Arrest these men, Inspector,” he gasped.  
“On what charge?”  
“Fug knows.”  
The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. “Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes,” said he at last, “I'm sure you don't really mean to—”  
“Jeezis jus’ lookit th’ faces!” cried Holmes, guffawing.  
The two men were both staring at me with outraged expressions. Indeed, they were staring at my trousers. It was then that I realised I had inadvertently voided my bladder.  
“Itsh veh mush the sort of fing that I ‘spected,” said Holmes weeping with mirth. “Wasssin, I thing our quiet rest in the country s’been a success… burp, and I shall certainly return much in… n… in… invigalatred to Baker Street to-morrow.”  
“What about the murdered coachman?” asked Inspector Forrester.  
“Fuggit.” said Holmes, shrugging, before carefully arranging himself in a sudden heap on the floor.


End file.
